Under rising unemployment pressure, Gen Z rappers in mainland China are turning their job-hunting struggles into music that resonates with a generation on edge.
By Susan Sun
While many of his former classmates are preparing to find a job, Zhang Xianhui is trying to build a career in rap.
Zhang reveals that in 2022, he failed Gaokao, the National College Entrance Examination in China, and received only an offer from a vocational school.
His teachers urged him to retake the exam, but he felt that the school had already given up on students like him. “Some teachers treated us like troublemakers because we weren’t top scorers. It felt like we were already written off,” Zhang says.
Zhang began writing music seriously after hearing《工廠(Factory)》by 河南說唱之神 (God of Henan Rap), a song about the drift of small-town youth to uncertain futures.
The music video has garnered more than 13 million views on streaming platforms, becoming a social phenomenon among job-market-weary listeners.
The song has also swept major awards at the 3rd Wave Music Awards, taking home top honours including Best Rap Song, Best Single Production, and Best Music Video.
“That song made me realise rapping can tell the truth about people like us. It gives me the courage to write about my own failures,” Zhang says.
Zhang Xianhui doing recording and mixing at his rented house. (Photo courtesy of Zhang Xianhui)
One of his most shared songs《逃離(Escape)》was written shortly after he was turned down for a warehouse job in February 2025. He expresses his frustration through the song:
“If you aren’t born with a key, you knock till your fists bleed.
Bosses say work hard, but they want a family tree.
Diplomas weigh less than a father with power
I hustle alone, counting rejection by the hour.”
The song quickly drew 10,000 views, and comments began piling up, mostly from other young men who described themselves as “factory workers”, “delivery boys”, or “vocational school students”.
One comment under Zhang’s TikTok post says, “bro, you wrote what I didn’t dare to say at home.” Another says he cried on the bus reading the lyrics, “it made me realise that I’m not the only one who feels shut out before even getting to the door.”
Zhang now has over 7,200 fans on Bilibili, a commonly used video-sharing platform in China. Some listeners shared their own job-hunting experiences under the video.
Citing a comment which says she has submitted 80 applications and only got one interview, Zhang feels like reading his own story.
The 21-year-old rapper earns around RMB ¥4,000 (US $550) a month from his part-time delivery work and music streams, while the median salary of fresh university graduates in major cities is around RMB ¥6,000 (US $820) in 2025, according to several provincial education bureaus. His parents are worried, but Zhang insists that rapping is the only thing that matters to him.
“When I perform in bars and live houses, I feel like I am being heard, and comments saying that my lyrics sound like their life keep me motivated,” Zhang says.
China’s job market remains gloomy for young people. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, in late 2025, the urban unemployment rate of those aged 16-24 stayed above 14%, which is one of the highest unemployment rates since the mid-2010s.
Unlike Zhang, another rapper, Feng Zhiming is kindling his rap career while studying computer science.
The 23-year-old university student performs at bars two nights a week and creates music pieces in his dormitory.
“My parents believe a degree equals stability, but half my seniors with degrees can’t get jobs,” he says.
Feng mentioned that one of his friends in his major who graduated this year spends months sending out more than 60 application letters, but no one replies.
“He said he feels like his four years of university are nothing to employers,” Feng says, “to be honest, watching him makes me panic. If someone with good grades couldn’t even get a single job interview, how about the rest of us?”
However, this anxiety fuels Feng’s music. His latest song,《别擔心 (Don’t Worry)》, resonates with many graduates.
Feng writes the song after comforting his mother on the phone, telling her that everything is fine, while hiding the fact that he has lost his internship opportunity.
“Many of my peers only share good news and hide the bad news from our parents. We don’t want them to be upset, but the reality bites,” Feng says.
He now earns around RMB ¥1,500 (US $205) a month from live streaming on his TikTok account and performing in bars.
Feng says many students send him messages saying the lyrics of his songs mirror hardship in their lives.
“Our generation faces too much pressure, and the biggest motivation is having people who understand me through my songs,” he says.
Joseph Louis Travis, lecturer at the School of Journalism and Communication at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, says many Chinese youth are becoming rappers to express deeper economic anxiety.
“Many students choose majors based on what they’re told is ‘safer,’ not what they love. But when even practical degrees no longer guarantee work, young people start questioning whether sacrificing passion is worth it,” he says.
Travis notes that music offers youngsters a rare sense of agency through his research, which focuses on youth culture and creative labour. “When you’re boxed into studying something you don’t enjoy, creative work becomes a place to reclaim excitement and meaning,” he explains.
He also mentioned that digital platforms have lowered the entry barrier for young rappers but have not offered enough financial benefits. “Visibility improves online, but stability doesn’t. Independent musicians must still perform in clubs, build networks, and promote themselves on their own,” he says.
He adds that Chinese rap operates within commercial and political boundaries distinct from its U.S. origins, shaping what artists can express and how they navigate the industry.
“For decades, the formula was study hard, get a degree, and find a stable job. That formula isn’t working for everyone anymore. These musicians show us a generation searching for meaning and visibility in a future that feels increasingly uncertain,” he says.
Edited by Winnie Li
Sub-edited by Christine Ge
